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by alba17



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson thought he could escape by marrying Mary; Holmes lures him back and he can't resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Written for "addiction" challenge at holmeswatson09 on LiveJournal.

At first, it was a relief. There was no more of the constant worry, the anticipation of random, bizarre activities at all times of the day and night, the need to run out in pursuit of a case at a moment's notice. Having all of one's own clothing predictably clean and at the ready.

Normal. Routine. Exactly what he'd been craving more and more over the last few years.

At first, he revelled in the calm domesticity of his new life. The soft touch of Mary's hand on his arm as they alit from a cab. The deep sage green of the curtains she'd chosen for their flat. Their wedding picture in a silver frame on a small side table draped in lace.

It was like a warm, soothing bath after a day of hard labour. He'd sit in their rooms, in the tan leather armchair Mary had chosen for him as appropriate for a husband, sipping a cup of tea and reading the newspaper, listening to the slow tick-tock of the clock. Mary would share some amusing anecdotes about people she'd encountered in the shops that day and he'd laugh. She'd crinkle her blue eyes at him and smile, and he'd admire her prettiness, the light glinting in her hair and the flush on her cheeks. He was nothing but content, the weight of the gold ring on his finger like an anchor preventing him from slipping out with the tide.

Then there was that day he met Holmes for lunch. Holmes talked rapidly about his current case, the details coming fast and thick. Watson had been hard-pressed to keep up with the avalanche of facts and conclusions; his brain appeared to have grown sluggish in the absence of his brilliant friend. He watched Holmes' face as he spoke, the way his eyes moved about the room, the intensity of his gaze as he filtered through the evidence he'd found, the excitement that animated his features as he closed in on his final deductions. Watson found himself grinning ear to ear as he observed the process, occasionally contributing a minor point that Holmes would graciously, if patiently, grant as possibly helpful.

It had brought it all back, the fervour and passion of the chase, the comradely conversations in which one of them would suddenly have a moment of insight that would crack the case, the give and take with Holmes over everything from the best sausages in London to how to trap a tiger in the Indian jungle. Watson completely forgot about the fact that he was to meet Mary for a stroll in the park before his late afternoon appointments, distracted as he was by the way Holmes' cheekbones stood out and the slight stubble on his cheek. Naturally, this lead him to wonder whether anyone was making sure Holmes ate on a regular basis and had clean shirts.

Neither ate much of their lunch, the roast chicken cooling on the plates, but they lingered over the coffee, reluctant to leave. Holmes leaned back in his chair, bringing the cup to his lips as Watson desultorily stirred sugar into his own. Holmes' eyes caught Watson's over the white edge of the china as he sipped and the gaze continued beyond a normal length, neither man looking away. Watson's hand paused in its stirring – he was unable to tear his eyes away. There was a flash of something in the brown depths of his friend's eyes; a promise of something unknown and possibly dangerous, but sublimely exciting. Something completely missing from his life with Mary and only hinted at in his previous life with Holmes.

He felt a stirring deep within, heat pooling in his groin and, alarmed, he finally managed to pull himself away from the intense stare of his friend. He looked down into his coffee and cleared his throat, glancing around the restaurant - anywhere but at Holmes.

His left hand was resting on the white tablecloth, the gold ring bright in the strong lights of the restaurant. It still looked new and shiny. For the briefest of moments, Holmes put his hand on his, covering the ring, as a friend might to make a point in conversation, but the touch felt like fire to Watson. His eyes were drawn once again to Holmes' face and he flushed as he looked at him, that yearning for something more growing inside of him.

Holmes was dark while Mary was light; sharp while Mary was soft; and, should he venture to think of such a thing, hard in all the right places. After a moment of feeling quite warm indeed at the thought, he snuck a glance at his friend, who was presently deriding Mrs. Hudson's baking abilities: the deep brown eyes, whose every expression conveyed the fact that the man's brain was working overtime; the dark brown hair in its usually disarray, which, Watson allowed himself to acknowledge, was pleasingly silky to the touch; the mouth full and pink and probably soft and pliant against one's lips...

Feeling like his thoughts were getting away from him, Watson jerked himself back to the present reality, in which he still held the spoon, frozen over the now cold coffee. Holmes was staring at him as if expecting a response to a question.

"All right, old boy?" Holmes slipped a hand onto Watson's thigh, just above his knee, and Watson could feel the curve of each finger pressed hotly against his leg as if the cloth of his trousers wasn't even there. He held his breath, as if every person in the restaurant could tell what he was feeling, but nothing happened except Holmes squeezed his leg and removed his hand, still staring at him intently. Watson could feel the imprint of Holmes' hand on his leg as if it were still there.

"Yes, fine," he said with a smile, as if his comfortably domestic life with Mary hadn't just imploded underneath him.

Damn the man, with his eccentric charms and dark allure. He should have known, really. He could never get away. It was foolish even to try.

Holmes stood up, looking expectantly at Watson, hat in his hand. "Ready to go?"

"Certainly." Watson wasn't sure what that meant, exactly. Everything was suddenly topsy-turvy and he didn't know what he was supposed to do or where he was supposed to go. Nonetheless, he forged ahead as if everything were normal and routine.

Outside the restaurant, Holmes hailed a hansom cab, and as they stepped into it, he cupped Watson's elbow to steady him on the way up. Watson looked down at Holmes, whose hat was at a rakish angle, dark glasses balanced precariously on his nose, looking utterly charming. There was a lump in his throat and his chest felt tight, but his body vibrated happily as if filled with an electric current. He reached his arm down and Holmes grabbed his hand to pull himself up. As he did so, he ended up flush against Watson, their chests pressed together so closely that they shared the same breath, mouths mere centimetres apart.

"Ready to come home, Watson?" Holmes murmured into his lips.

By way of answer, Watson dragged him into the cab and slammed the door shut, his mouth closing on Holmes', and hands plunging into that wild mass of dark hair.

End

  
Perhaps this scene happened later (gah). Set photo by Brigitte Lacombe. Just had to share this - it's too lovely. RDJ is lying on a tiger's head!

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**Sherlock Holmes Fic: Home**   
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